


those things the heart believes are true

by behindtintedglass



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, post-series 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/behindtintedglass
Summary: "Here, though the world explode, these two survive,And it is always eighteen ninety five.'- Vincent Starrett





	

“I don’t know if I should feel guilty.”

Sherlock looks over at where John is watching over Rosie, who is, for once, sleeping peacefully on the couch.  For once, London is quiet, though the buzz of activity that’s ready to wake at any moment is there.  It’s late enough to be early, and cool enough to warrant the warmth of a fireplace, and it casts flickering shadows over the weary lines of John’s beautiful face.

Sherlock doesn’t ask what John feels guilty about, because he knows.  He also knows that John knows.  He has only been waiting for John to be brave enough to ask, because Sherlock wants to give him the answer.

“You shouldn’t be.”

This time it’s John who looks up, thumb still caressing Rosie’s soft, smooth cheek.  If Sherlock has any say with the world, he will never let Rosie be marred by it.  Ever.

“Shouldn’t I?”  John says softly, and there is the real question, and it plucks at Sherlock’s heart.  No one can quite play his heartstrings like John does.  No one has ever reminded him so much of how human he is.  It’s not really something he’s happy about, but—

“It is what it is,” Sherlock answers, just as quietly.

The lights of a passing car flicker over the window—a cab, Sherlock surmises distantly, although he doesn’t acknowledge the deductions that his mind quickly went through to come up with that conclusion.  There are more pressing matters at hand, especially because John has finally risen from the couch.  From behind him, Rosie turns over in her sleep and snuffles out a blissful, contented sigh, before she stills again.

If Sherlock has any say in this world, Rosie will never be haunted by nightmares.  Especially not the ones her fathers have gone through.

There is another plucking of his heartstrings, and Sherlock realises that he has just referred to himself as Rosie’s father, too.

The embers in the firelight seems to jump, and he swears he can see the shadows of Mary’s smile.

‘ _I know what you two are,’_ her voice gently caresses by his ear, always, when moments like this strike him.  He misses her, too—possibly never in the kind of depth John misses her—but in the way he misses a friend he wishes he could’ve spent more time with.

Like Victor.

Another plucking of the heartstrings.  Isn’t this what John is going to ask?

“It is what it is,” John repeats, and he’s standing next to Sherlock now.  When did he come so close?  

‘ _He always has been,’_ a voice in his mind purrs, and he doesn’t know whom it belongs to. Mary. Eurus. Mycroft. Moriarty. Molly. Irene. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson.  

It’s all of them, and none of them at once.

‘ _I think it’s your heart speaking,’_ says the voice, and Sherlock closes his eyes, finally willing himself to listen.

‘ _He’s speaking.  Listen.’_

“Am I supposed to not feel guilty,” John is saying, and from the shadows cast over his eyelids, Sherlock assumes John has placed a hand on the backrest of Sherlock’s chair, close enough to touch him, but not quite, “that this… all of this.  All the games you were forced to play all these years—”

‘ _No, John,’_ Sherlock interrupts him quietly in his mind. ‘ _Never forced._ ’

“—by Moriarty.  Irene.  Magnussen.  Even your own sister.  It all had the same outcome.”

‘ _Listen, Sherlock,’_ the voices of his heart whisper in a chorus.

“And what outcome is that?” Sherlock asks, although he already knows the answer.  He knows it from the moment he invited John to 221B, and John knows it too.

Silence reigns for a moment.  Even London has gone still, as if the city too, is holding its breath, waiting for the answer.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, and even though outwardly Sherlock doesn’t react, he feels his heart contract and his lungs expand when he feels the calluses of John’s trigger hand cup his cheek.

When did he get so close?

“Look at me,” John pleads.  “I want you to look at me, when I tell you the answer.”

And Sherlock, all these years, has never been able to deny John anything.

He opens his eyes.

John smiles at him.  It’s soft, it’s broken, and it’s the most heartbreakingly beautiful sight he has ever seen.

“You love me.”

The heartstrings inside his chest are doing a concerto now.  Dimly, he is reminded of Eurus, and what she has always known even though Sherlock never knew her.

“That’s not exactly new information,” Sherlock says breathlessly, because John is now kneeling before him, fitting himself in the space between Sherlock’s open legs, and oh the way John is looking up at him, like a sinner at the altar, and Sherlock doesn’t know how to feel about the position John is putting him in.

Like he is John’s only source of salvation now.

“No,” John concedes, his eyes going impossibly warm, and impossibly gentle.  “It isn’t, to you.”

Sherlock holds his breath as John leans forward, his other hand moving to cradle Sherlock’s jaw.

“But it is, to me.”

That strikes a dissonant chord inside Sherlock, and the music stops.  So does his heart.

“How?” Sherlock exhales the question, and hates the way his voice trembles with it.  “How could you not have known?”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches, as he always does when he’s amused, and the voice in Sherlock’s ear is now more clearly Mycroft’s, and suddenly Sherlock is the little kid simultaneously looking up to and envying his infinitely smarter older brother as he hears him say once again:

‘ _You see, but you do not observe.’_

 _‘Listen,’_ says another voice, and this time, for some reason, it’s Irene.

“I did know,” John clarifies, and that doesn’t make any whit of sense, but all the voices in Sherlock’s mind promptly shuts up when John leans up, close enough to feel him breathing against his own mouth, and Sherlock feels his own suddenly run dry as he realises there’s only the space of a breath between them that’s stopping this from being a kiss.

“I just didn’t know how _much_.”

John’s eyes are dilated now, and their position is so reminiscent of the way he had allowed Irene to be this close before, so many years ago, and he wonders if John also knew, and this is his way of reclaiming what is his.

‘ _It’s always been yours,’_ Sherlock wants to tell him desperately, and in his mind, Mary agrees. 

‘ _I know.’_

“All those lives lost,” John murmurs, and here, here is the most deafening concerto of all, as he hears both wonder and agony in those breathless words, and Sherlock feels his own eyes pricking with tears he doesn’t want to fall.  “All because you decided that my life is worth so much more than theirs.”

The tears fall anyway.  Luckily, John’s hands are bracketing both of his cheeks to wipe them away.  Steadily, as is his wont.  Hands of a soldier, a doctor, a lover.

A friend.  First and foremost and always, John is his friend.

It’s the first time he has ever experienced John’s touch like this, and his heartstrings are screaming.

‘ _Why haven’t you allowed yourself to be touched by him like this, before?’_ it’s Eurus’ voice, but her tone isn’t cruel.  It’s clinical, and curious, and reminiscent of her first question the first time he played _him_ , for her.

‘ _You know why,_ ’ he answers Eurus, and in his mind, Moriarty smiles.

“Are you asking me if you should feel guilty that I will always choose you?” Sherlock says it all out in a rush, meaning to be condescending, meaning to be angry, meaning to lash out at John for all the weight that’s bearing down on his conscience in his accountability for all the people who died because he _didn’t_ choose them.

Instead… the question comes out as frail, vulnerable, and painfully hopeful.

For a moment, a shutter falls over John’s eyes, and Sherlock _hates_ it when that happens, because it’s John’s immediate psychological response when he encounters a new emotion he can’t accept.

And then, just as quickly, he sees the moment John wilfully pulls the curtains away, and finally, _finally_ allows Sherlock to see through him.

‘ _You see,’_ a voice repeats in his head, and not surprisingly, this time… it’s Molly.  ‘ _But you do not observe.’_

“I’m guilty,” John says softly, and his voice is just as shaky, just as vulnerable, and just as hopeful.  “Because all this time, you never knew.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, about to protest, about to vehemently prove that John’s wrong, until he realises… he’s right.

The concerto in his heart slows, and finally fades into a melody he hasn’t realised he’s been wanting to play for so long, until now.

“You love me,” Sherlock says in wonder and agony, and John smiles.

This time, all the voices in his head dissolve into just a single entity, and his heart is finally singing his song.

“I do,” John says with a smile, and in his mind, Sherlock recognises it for the vow it is.

Sherlock swallows.  This time, he’s the one who cups John’s face.  Suspended in this moment, he knows this is the most dangerous game he will ever play.

And he has every intention of losing.

“I do,” Sherlock returns.

 

* * *

 

Sometime in 1895, the love that dare not speak its name finally finds its culmination in 221B Baker Street, in the marriage of two men who will live forever, all because a writer fell in love with a genius.

“I do,” Holmes and Watson vow.

 

* * *

 

“I do,” Sherlock and John repeat, and finally— _finally_ —there is no air between them, anymore.

And Sherlock has never again feared drowning.

 


End file.
